Charmed by the Billionaire

by Jessica Lemmon

  Charmed by the Billionaire

  Blue Collar Billionaires, book 2

  Jessica Lemmon

  Copyright © 2021 by Jessica Lemmon

  All rights reserved.

  Charmed by the Billionaire is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published in the United States by Jessica Lemmon.

  Cover concept by Jessica Lemmon

  Cover design by Passion Creations

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Turn the page for a preview of Once Upon a Billionaire

  Once Upon a Billionaire [Preview]

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Lemmon

  Chapter One

  Cris

  Working for Benjamin Owen is agony. Pure agony.

  Not in the my-boss-is-an-A-hole way, which would be easier, but in the my-boss-is-my-best-friend way, which is much worse. Especially when said boss doesn’t acknowledge me beyond my role as his friend and life assistant.

  Pardon me, life assistant coach.

  He’s been vocal about the title adjustment, most notably to his brothers, who likely have observed me shadowing Benji’s every footfall like a devoted Labradoodle.

  He strolls into his kitchen where I’m waiting on the one-cup coffee maker to finish sputtering java into my travel mug. “Can I treat you to lunch, coach?”

  I wrinkle my nose. I don’t like that nickname.

  There’s nothing alluring or feminine or even personal about it. Not that I expect him to address me as “honey” or “gorgeous.” That would be unprofessional. But it would be alluring and feminine and personal. If he would bother to notice that I am, in fact, a woman.

  Sigh.

  “You’re looking at my lunch.” I elevate my mug of coffee, and his mouth pulls down at the corners.

  I’ve yet to give you a full picture of Benjamin “Benji” Owen. I’ll do that now.

  The basic stats: he’s thirty-three years old, having turned thirty-three on October thirteenth. He’s six-feet, one-inch tall if you don’t count his hair, which is fantastic. It’s thick, ink-black, and tousled into a want-to-run-your-fingers-through-it style on top but short in the back with groomed, neat sideburns that aren’t too long or too short. Eyebrows: dark, arched, and expressive. Eyes: brown but not dull cardboard brown. Caramel brown, golden when the sun hits them right, and almost always smiling even when his mouth isn’t. Lashes: enviably long with a bit of curl at the tips. Nose: straight, narrow but not pointy. Mouth… Cue full-body shivers.

  Give me a second to pull myself together.

  Mouth: straight white teeth thanks to braces when he was a teenager, full lips almost always parked in an appreciative, happy grin or a smirk hinting that an appreciative, happy grin is about to emerge.

  Clothes: divine. I’ve never known a man who dresses as impeccably as Benji, and I’ve been around several well-dressed men in my line of work, mostly the Owens. Sure, his brothers dress well, but Archer and Nate do it in a rote way. Benji’s outfits are carefully selected. His shoes are Salvatore Ferragamos, which cost between one and two grand per pair. His shirts are usually button-down, most often a checked pattern, and his trousers encase long, strong legs.

  He’s slim but not “skinny,” boasting a body I’ve admired when he wears a lot less. Like when he’s swimming in his pool, his powerful arms slicing through the water, his torso leaving ripples in his wake. When he’s in shorts it’s hard not to notice the sharp definition of his calf muscles. They could whittle a chunk of wood into a replica of Aphrodite. An army of ab muscles marches down to a V marked by delineating lines at his hipbones. And—brace yourself—there’s a tattoo on his flank between his ribs. The words “carpe diem” are etched there in careful cursive—his own handwriting.

  Hey, I tried to warn you. He’s damn near perfect from head to toe with but one glaring flaw.

  “You can’t have coffee for lunch, coach.” His grin is mischievous and friendly. Sexy as hell. He doesn’t mean for it to be. He oozes sex appeal from every pore as if he was crafted in a test tube to fulfill a woman’s desires. Billionaire? Check. Well-dressed, well-spoken? Check, check. Painfully attractive and potent? Check aaand check. Clueless? Big fat checkity-check.

  Other than being able to give a general description of my person (in case of my kidnapping, for example), he doesn’t see me. At least not the way I see him.

  “Oh, but I can,” I argue, my smile a plastic version of itself. I’ve learned how to manage my attraction to my boss-slash-best friend over the years I’ve known him (ten of them), and over the year-plus I’ve worked for him. My tactic is simple, and judging by Benji’s non-reaction to me each time we interact, it’s working. Our friendship is solid, our working relationship steady. We are nailing it.

  Even though I’d rather be nailing him. Ha.

  “Anyway,” I say, trying to sound breezy while my hormones crowd into a panting mass that would give boy-band fangirls a run for their money. “I have errands, so I’m on my way out the door.”

  “Okay, but we’re still on for our jog at five today.” His finger-point is as depressing as his wink. He may as well slug me in the shoulder and call me “sport.” It’s official. I am a nonsexual entity to him. Like a bagger at the grocery store. Or a turnip.

  He sets his mug in the sink and slaps his flat middle. “I don’t call you coach for nothing. You keep me in my prime.”

  “That’s my job.” I hope sarcasm didn’t creep through. His eyes spark but the glint fades fast. I’m safe for another day. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Purse on my shoulder, I grab my travel mug and head out the door. Twenty minutes later I’m walking around Grand Marin, the open-air shopping center Benji’s brother, Nate, recently built and opened here in Clear Ridge, Ohio. It’s an absolutely gorgeous April day with plenty of sun, no rain, and mild temps. The shopping behemoth is a live-work facility housing and employing young entrepreneurs who run businesses and restaurants, and rent the offices atop those businesses and restaurants. Just being here makes me feel more successful.

  I palm the door handle leading up to the property manager’s office and then climb the stairs. The office sits at a corner overlooking Grand Marin like a castle in a kingdom. Or should I say queendom? Nate’s fiancée oversees this place like the queen she is. She was a government employee with a secret history when she crashed into Nathaniel Owen’s life. He never saw her coming but shifted his entire world to be with her. A trait that evidently doesn’t run in the family.

  Inside the posh office loaded with live and fake greenery, a receptionist gre
ets me. He’s young, twentysomething, and knows me on sight.

  “Ms. Cristin Gilbert.” Sandy—a name he inherited from his father and refuses to be embarrassed by—stands and smooths his tie. “Vivian just finished with a conference call. Is she expecting you?”

  “She is.”

  “Business or pleasure?” His forehead crinkles adorably, but I feel no zings of attraction to him the way I do to my boss and best friend. Sandy is a cute guy. From his high cheekbones to a nice build suggesting he hits the gym at Grand Marin on the regular, there’s plenty to admire. But at five years younger than me, he reminds me too much of my younger brother Manuel for me to find him truly hot. Though Manuel is more like my kid than my kid brother, given I’ve been raising him and my other two brothers since I was eighteen.

  Long story.

  “Pleasure,” I answer. “I have a date tonight. I’m in need of duds.” I gesture to my basic black dress and flats.

  “Say no more. Please.” He makes a face and the two days’ worth of scruff shifts on his jaw. “I’ll listen to you talk business with me all day,” he says, already en route to Viv’s office door, “but I can’t talk about clothes.”

  He fakes falling asleep as his knuckles rap on the door, and I chuckle under my breath. Viv looks up from her desk through the glass—there’s virtually no privacy in this office, save for the tinted windows in the conference room—and waves us in.

  “Your date is here,” Sandy announces. “She’s cherubic, cute, and too good for the likes of me. I trust you two will be very happy together.”

  “Thanks, Sandy,” Viv says with a laugh. He rushes back to his post to pick up the ringing phone. “I really like him.”

  “Told you.” I buff my nails on my dress. I was the one who suggested Sandy work for Vivian instead of Owen Construction proper. His resume had hit Benji’s inbox as Vivian was saddling up for her new position and was worried she’d never find good help.

  “You ready to do this?” She stands and rubs her hands together. Her slimming plum skirt is fitted, her silk blouse a paler shade of purple bedazzled with winking rhinestone buttons. She’s both professional and beautiful. I glance down at my plain dress and feel a stab of envy. I stepped it up today—I typically wear jeans to work—and I still can’t touch Viv’s fabulous style. Don’t get me wrong, my clothes match, but I’m not winning any awards for costume design. Which is exactly why I called her.

  “I’m as ready as I can be,” I tell her as we exit the office. I wave goodbye to Sandy upon my retreat.

  “I’ve chosen three boutiques to check out.” We take the stairs, her incredibly tall high-heeled shoes ticking each step. I’d break my neck if I attempted stairs in shoes like hers. “Two of them are here, the other right up the road.”

  “I’m in your capable hands.”

  “It’s not going to hurt to go on a date. A few dates,” she says as if I’d argued instead. She flips her dark brown hair over her shoulders and slips a pair of sunglasses onto her nose, hiding chocolate brown eyes a few shades darker than Benji’s. “If anything, maybe Benji will voice an opinion about who his life assistant coach is dating. And wouldn’t that be fun to hear?”

  He’d have to notice me as a being with two X chromosomes to comment. Which would be different, but I don’t know if it’d be fun.

  She spares me a grin as sunlight hits her hair and highlights the delicate freckles on her cheeks. You’d never know it now, but she was cagey and nervous after being outed as Walter Steele’s daughter last year. Yes, that Walter Steele. She’s not a criminal like her deceased father, but I could understand why she was worried about what others would think. Who among us isn’t?

  “Benji wouldn’t notice what I was doing if I was doing it on his desk while he was typing up an email.” I snort. The truth is always funny.

  “We’ll see,” she promises. “We’ll find you the perfect date ensemble and then grab lunch and martinis. I can have you back to your office by, oh, say six o’clock?”

  “No can do.” I turn her down with regret in my heart. Martinis and lunch sound amazing. “I promised Benji we’d jog at five. As his coach, part of my job is to keep him fit for his myriad girlfriends.”

  She hums, no longer looking pleased. “Who is she this time? Blonde? Redhead? Brunette?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” I frown as that fact hits me square in the solar plexus. Since I’ve worked for him, Benji has had a revolving door of dates on call. Last year he was in a semi-serious relationship with a tall, leggy blonde named Trish. She was smart and nice, which sucked because I really wanted to hate her. Vivian met her and agreed we couldn’t hate her. She also agreed that not being able to hate Trish was a bummer.

  “Well, who cares.” Viv waves a hand. “Time to move on. Or at least sideways. Take it from me, Cris, life has a way of working out the way it’s supposed to. Especially when you least expect it.”

  Easy for her to say, I think without animosity. Vivian and Nathaniel are in love, and it’s adorable and beautiful and enviable. As a closet romantic (though I came out to Vivian), I watch them together and internally swoon. I want that someday. Not with Nate, obviously, but with someone.

  Time to go into the big, bad world and find him.

  Chapter Two

  Benji

  Each pounding footfall thumps in my ears, my heart keeping time like an orchestra conductor. I hear my own steady, rhythmic breathing over the sounds of my steps and heart.

  Thump, beat, puff. Thump, beat, puff.

  The day is mild, warmish, but a cooler breeze keeps me from sweating too much. The park is moderately occupied, but it’s also large, so there’s plenty of room on the path for us to run. Cris is ahead of me wearing a pair of hot pink shorts and a white T-shirt with the words “my favorite brother gave me this shirt.” The first time I saw it I had to smile, not because of its outwardly snarky message but because there is zero chance she could pick a favorite brother out of the three her mom stuck her with.

  Stuck is a harsh word. I didn’t mean it that way. Let me explain.

  Cris’s mom, Selina, bailed on her daughter and co., aka her three bros, when Cris was eighteen years old. Selina, who I’m told goes by Lina, moved to Vegas to marry a guy she’s since divorced three husbands ago. I think she’s on marriage number seven, but it’s been four or five months since Cris mentioned her, so who knows if Lina has moved on to number eight by now.

  So, Lina went to Vegas and Cris stayed here in Clear Ridge with her brothers, who at the time ranged from ages seven to twelve. This was while she was grinding out a college education and working part-time. Talk about a full schedule. Cris said her mom promised to send money regularly when she left, but only ended up sending it semi-regularly. Like sending cash was going to make up for not being there. I know firsthand how nice it is to have money, but it’s no substitute for a parent.

  When Cris turned twenty, she started working as an intern for William Owen, better known as “Dad,” but he’s not my birth father. Sadly, my birth father (and birth mother) are no longer alive. It’s not a circumstance I like to think about, but there’s no escaping it. They’re gone and have been since I was ten years old. I’ve missed them every day since.

  Anyway. We’re talking about Cris.

  I remember the first time I saw her. Spunky, adorable, blond. I thought she’d come and go as most interns did at Owen Construction, but she stayed on full-time, working for my dad before I hired her myself. I had taken to working at my home office more often than not. Traveling to headquarters is a drive to the tune of ninety minutes on a light traffic day which allows me to get almost nothing done, so I limit my visits to the big HQ. Plus, I like my home office. And my home gym. The in-ground pool in my backyard is heated. I’m not trying to sound like a dick, just illustrating how everything I need is at my fingertips. Including my life assistant coach.

  It’s a title I made up. I needed an assistant, but I also needed a life coach. Her position is bespoke. I’m t
hrilled she was willing to mash together two seemingly random job titles into a Franken-position we could stitch up or bolt together as I saw fit. We were acquaintances at best when she worked for William. Our friendship grew once we started spending a lot of time together. Now I don’t think I could do anything without her. At least not well.

  When we moved her from HQ into my house, I noticed tenfold how spunky, adorable, and blond she was. How she hums when she takes her first sip of coffee. How much she enjoys going to the post office to buy stamps. She always buys the LOVE ones with puppies or cartoons on them, but I don’t complain. Whenever she uses one, her gray eyes light up and a sweet smile spreads her mouth. Unfortunately, she’s not the kind of assistant you hire and then seduce. She’s practically family, though “family” takes on a broader meaning in the Owen family.

  William and Lainey Owen have one child of their own. Archer Owen is three years older than me but not the eldest of the Owen sons. He’s the middle by a technicality. After they adopted me, they went and adopted a rough Chicago teen straight out of juvie. Nate is one year Archer’s senior. Ours is a patchwork family. I’ve heard Archer refer to Cris as our honorary sister, but I can’t agree with him there. She’s a lot of things to me, but sister? Yikes. I’ve admired far too many of her body parts for that not to be creepy.

  And man, is she hard not to admire when she’s running ahead of me, her round ass jiggling enticingly every time her shoes hit the pavement. Dappled sunlight streams through the leaves on the trees and lights her curly blond hair. Her fair skin is what most would consider “tan” but given my bronze hue, I only see “fair.”